Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Go ahead,” she said. Was she a trifle wary?

  “Are you a Caucasian?”

  Oh, my Gods! Here he went on that (bleeped) fool Prince Caucalsia kick! She had blond hair, she was as tall as some women around Atalanta, Manco.

  “What makes you ask?”

  “It’s your head,” said Heller. “It is very beautiful and it has a long skull structure.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Are you interested in genealogy?”

  “I’ve studied it a bit.”

  “Ah! College, of course!” And she rushed over to an ornate desk, opened it and got out a large chart and some papers. She pulled up a chair beside Heller and spread the papers out. “These,” she said impressively, “were specially drawn up for me by Professor Stringer! He is the world’s foremost expert on genealogy and family trees!”

  Aha! I knew already about the fixation American women have on family trees! And this Stringer was probably making a fortune out of the racket.

  She gestured at Heller. She had the Italian habit of talking with her hands, head and body. “You have no idea how prejudiced some people are! I was a famous actress at the Roxy Theater when dear Joe married me.” The memory broke her train of thought for a moment and her eyes went moist.

  Oho! I spotted her now. One of the Roxy chorus girls! A chorus line is composed of girls that are six feet six.

  She recovered. “A capo is supposed to marry a Sicilian girl and the old cats carped and meowed and criticized. Particularly the mayor’s wife. So dear Joe had this drawn up. And did it put them in their places! I keep it around to make the (bleepches) stay there!”

  She spread out the chart. It was all scrolls and swirls and illuminated with little pictures. It was in the shape of a tree.

  “Now,” lectured Babe impressively, “as a student you are undoubtedly aware of all this but I will go over it anyway. Reviewing one’s studies is a good thing. Now, the Nordic race is composed of the Caspian, Mediterranean and Proto-Negroid types. . . .”

  “Caspian?” said Heller. “That’s the sea over by the Caucasus.”

  “Oh, right,” she said vaguely and then plunged on with energy. “Now, you can see here how the Germanic races came out of Asia and migrated. The Goths, via Germany, came down into Northern Italy in the fifth century and the Lombards in the sixth century. These are the dolichocephalic—means long-headed, which is to say, smart—elements in the Italian population. They are blond and tall.” My Gods, had somebody rehearsed her! She was probably quoting Professor Stringer, word for word!

  “Trace this line here. These are the Franks. From Germany, they came down and took over France, which is named after them. That was in the fifth century. Now, one branch—trace this—the Salians, took over northern Italy. One of the Salians, in the ninth century, was emperor of all the Franks and Holy Roman Emperor besides. He was named, you see here, Carolus Magnus, which, in American, means Charles the Great. In history books he is called Charlemagne. He was the emperor of the whole god (bleeped) world!”

  She stopped and looked impressively at Heller. He nodded. She went on. “Now, Charlemagne had quite a few marriages. And he married—that’s this line here—the daughter of the Duke d’Aosta. That means ‘of’ Aosta and that’s a province in northwest Italy just south of Lake Geneva.

  “There are blond and tall Italians clear across northern Italy but they are thick in the Valle d’Aosta.

  “Now, follow this line here. From the Duke d’Aosta we come right down to Biella, which was my father’s name. You still with me, kid?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said Heller in a fascinated voice.

  “All right. Now, at the start of World War II, my parents fled to Sicily. They stayed in Sicily four whole years! At the end of the war, they emigrated to America and that’s where I was born. So,” and she drew up in triumph, “I’m just as Sicilian as any of them! What do you think of that?”

  “Complete proof!” said Heller.

  Babe flipped a finger at the chart. “And, furthermore, I am a direct descendant of Charlemagne! Oh,” she gloated, “the mayor’s wife went absolutely green with envy!”

  “I can see why she would!” said Heller. “But wait. There’s something that’s not here. That maybe you don’t know. You ever hear of Atalanta?”

  “I never been to Atlanta.”

  “No, Atalanta,” said Heller. “Now, at the beginning of this tree, a lot earlier than it starts here, there was a prince.”

  This had her attention. And it sure had mine! Code break! He was about to be carried away with his stupid enthusiasm for Folk Legend 894M. I reached for my pen.

  “His name,” said Heller, “was Prince Caucalsia. He . . .”

  From the door came a piercing, “Pssst!”

  Babe and Heller turned toward it.

  There was a Sicilian there. He was holding a large money sack. He had come halfway through the door and was bending over, beckoning urgently to Babe Corleone. His face. I had seen his face! I was trying to place it!

  Babe went over and bent down. The Sicilian stood on tiptoe to reach her ear. He was urgently pointing toward Heller. I could not hear what he was whispering. She shook her head, negatively, a bit puzzled. Then he whispered and seemed triumphant.

  The woman’s eyes shot open. She stood up. She turned and stamped across the room to Heller. She seized him!

  Then she pushed him off, holding him by the shoulders. She stared at him as though memorizing his face. Then she whirled. In a voice that could have knocked the walls down, she said, “Where the hell is that Giovanni?”

  Giovanni was right there. The hood that had brought Heller up in the elevator.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this was that kid?” she thundered.

  There were other faces in the door. Scared!

  “Here I been treating him like dirt!” She turned. She pushed Heller down into an easy chair. “Why,” she pleaded, “didn’t you tell me you were the one that saved our Gracious Palms?”

  I could hear Heller swallow. “I . . . I didn’t know it was yours.”

  “Hell, yes, kid! We own and control the fanciest cat houses in New York and New Jersey! Who else?”

  Gregorio, glasses shaking, belatedly walked in with the milk and seltzer.

  “To hell with that,” said Babe. “This kid wants beer, he can have beer! To hell with the illegality!”

  “No, no,” said Heller. “I’ve really got to be going.” He thought for a moment. “You can tell me where to find Bang-Bang Rimbombo. I think I’ve got car trouble.”

  So that was why he had walked in on the Corleone mob!

  Suddenly, it all added up. He had read of Bang-Bang in the papers, knew he was part of the Corleone mob. He had Babe’s address from Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. To find himself an expert car bomber, he had simply gone to Babe’s. Very, very smart detective work at locating somebody.

  But wait! He had shown himself at that garage! They would be waiting for him when he came back there. Very, very dumb!

  Heller was going to drive me crazy yet! He was too brightly stupid to live!

  Babe turned to the people inside the door. They were whispering to each other and pointing at Heller and trying to get a better look at him. “Giovanni, get out the limo and run this young gentleman over to Bang-Bang’s. Tell him I said to do what the kid wants.”

  She turned back to Heller. “Look, kid, anything you want, you let Babe know, see?” She turned to the staff. “You hear that? And you, Consalvo, I want a word with you.” She was pointing at the one who had identified Heller.

  I suddenly remembered who the Sicilian with the money sack was. He was the clerk at the Gracious Palms! Trying to keep up with Heller was exhausting me, spoiling my recall for faces even.

  Heller took his leave. Babe bent down and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Come back anytime, you dear boy. You dear, dear boy!”

  PART SIXTEEN

  Chapter 7

  Heller sat in the front seat
of the limousine with the hood, Giovanni, driving.

  “You really wasted them punks just like that!” said Giovanni in a voice of awe. “Did you know one of them was Faustino’s nephew?” He drove for a while and then, taking his hand off the steering wheel, he made a gun out of his fingers and, pointing at the road, made the motions of firing and said, “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie! Just like that! Wow!”

  They drew up in front of a down-at-the-heels apartment house. Giovanni led Heller up to the second floor and knocked on a door, a code signal. A girl’s face came out through the door crack. “Oh, it’s you.” She opened it wider. “For you, Bang-Bang.”

  Bang-Bang Rimbombo was in bed with another girl.

  “Come on,” said Giovanni.

  “Hell, I just got sprung!” protested Bang-Bang. “I ain’t had any for six months!”

  “Babe says you go.”

  Bang-Bang was out of bed in a flash. He struggled into his clothes.

  “Car job,” said Giovanni. “This kid will show you.”

  “I’ll get my things,” said Bang-Bang.

  Giovanni used the phone and called a cab. Waiting, he covered the phone. “We never use the limo for wet jobs,” he said apologetically. “And we control the cab companies. They don’t talk.”

  Shortly, Giovanni shook Heller’s hand and left. Halfway down the hall he turned and made a pistol out of his fingers again. “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie!” he said. “Just like that!” He was gone.

  The cab arrived and Bang-Bang, dragging a big bag, got in. Heller followed him. Heller gave an address a block away from the garage.

  He was learning, but he was not really up on this tradecraft. They would be alerted. I knew he was going into a battle. And I didn’t have that platen. Short of sleep, haggard, I hung on the viewscreen. He had my life in his hands!

  Heller paid the cab off and walked around the corner toward the garage.

  “Wait,” said Bang-Bang. He was a very narrow-faced little Sicilian. He looked pretty smart. Maybe he had sense enough, I hoped, to keep them out of trouble. “If that’s the place,” he said, “I know it. It’s a garage Faustino uses to repaint stolen cars and other things. You sure you know what you’re doing, kid?” He shook his head. “Sneaking in there to rig a car for a blitz is a little bit steep.”

  “It’s my car and I want you to unrig it,” said Heller.

  “Oh, that’s different,” said Bang-Bang. He hefted his heavy shoulder bag and approached the garage.

  The door was locked on the outside with a big padlock. Heller put his ear to the wall and listened. Then he shook his head. He went around the building and checked the back door. It, too, was locked with a padlock. He returned to the front. He stood back and saw that there was a window beside the front door, about six feet from ground level.

  He took out a tiny tool, inserted it in the padlock, fished it, and almost at once had it open.

  Heller was moving very fast, very efficiently. It was so much in contrast with his sloppy disregard for routine espionage that I had forgotten for some time what he actually was. I was looking at a combat engineer. Getting into an enemy fort was something they did with a yawn. He was in the field of his own tradecraft!

  He opened the entry port of the front door, swished his hand around to make sure, probably, there were no trip wires and then stepped inside, placing his feet to avoid where feet would normally step—probably to avoid mines.

  He got a box and put it under the window, stood on it and undid the latch.

  He returned to the door, beckoned to Bang-Bang to enter. Then Heller went outside. He carefully relocked the padlock, just as it had been.

  Heller went to the outside of the window, lifted it and entered the building. He closed the window carefully. Now, to all intents and purposes, anyone approaching from the outside would have no sign that anyone was inside. Clever. I would have to remember how to do that.

  The whole interior was stacked with islands of cartons, leaving only aisles and room to drive a car down the center. And it was these cartons which were getting Bang-Bang’s attention.

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a (bleepch),” said Bang-Bang. “Will you look at this!” He had pried a carton open and was holding a bottle. “Johnnie Walker Gold Label! Look, kid. I heard of it but I never seen any.” In the dimness he must have seen that Heller wasn’t tracking. “Y’see, there’s red label and there’s black label and you can get that easy. But gold label, they keep only for Scotland or sometimes export it to Hong Kong. It’s worth forty bucks a bottle!”

  He looked at the cap. “No revenue seals! Smuggled!” He got the cap off adroitly to hide signs of opening. He touched his tongue to the top and tilted it.

  Heller’s hand tilted the bottle back, vertical.

  “No, no,” said Bang-Bang. “I never drink on duty.” He rolled the drop around on his tongue. “It ain’t fake! Smooth!” He put the top back on and restored it to the carton. Then he began to make an estimate of the number of cases, walking about. The islands were piled nearly to the ceiling and the garage/warehouse was big.

  “Jesus!” said Bang-Bang, “there’s close to two thousand cases in here. That’s . . .” he was trying to add it up. “Twelve to the case and forty dollars . . .”

  “Million dollars,” said Heller.

  “A million dollars,” said Bang-Bang, abstractedly. He went deeper into the building. “Hey! Look at this.” He had his hand on some differently shaped cases. He expertly pried up a lid with a knife and hauled out a small box. “Miniature wrist recorders from Taiwan! Must be . . .” he was counting, “. . . five thousand of them here. Two hundred dollars apiece wholesale . . .”

  “A million dollars,” said Heller.

  “A million dollars,” said Bang-Bang. Then he planted his feet and glared down the widest aisle. “Well, god (bleep) me! You know what that son of a (bleepch) Faustino is trying to do? He’s trying to cut in on our smuggling! The (bleepard)! He’s trying to muscle in on us! He’s going to flood the market and drive us out of business! God (bleep)! Oh, when Babe hears about this, she is going to be livid!”

  He stood and thought. “It’s that crook Oozopopolis!”

  “Can we get on with this car?” said Heller.

  Bang-Bang was promptly all business. “Don’t touch it!”

  The Cadillac was sitting apparently where Heller had parked it. The license plates had been removed. The light was very bad there.

  Bang-Bang got out a torch. Keeping his hands off the car, he gingerly slid under it. He was looking at the springs. “They sometimes put it under the leaves so when the car tilts, off it goes. Nope. Now for the . . . oh, for Christ’s sakes!”

  Heller was kneeling down watching Bang-Bang under the car. Bang-Bang seemed to be working on the inside of a wheel. His hand emerged and he tossed something to Heller, who caught it. A stick of dynamite!

  Bang-Bang was working on another wheel. He tossed up another stick of dynamite. Heller caught it. Bang-Bang, scrambling around, shortly tossed a third and then a fourth stick to Heller. After playing his light around further underneath, Bang-Bang emerged.

  “Cut-rate job,” said Bang-Bang. “There was a stick taped vertically to the inside of each wheel. Dynamite of this type is just sawdust and soup. The soup is usually spread all through the sawdust and is safe to handle unless concentrated.”

  “Soup?” asked Heller.

  “Nitroglycerine,” said Bang-Bang. “It explodes when you jar it. This car was rigged to blow up miles from here! As the wheels spun, the centrifugal force would make the soup move from the stick as a whole and concentrate at just one end. Then an extra bump on the road and BOOM! Cut-rate. They saved the expense of detonators! Cheap-o!” he added with scorn.

  “But maybe these were placed just to be found,” said Heller, “and the real charge is still in there somewhere.”

  “So these could have been decoys and the real charge is still in there somewhere,” said Bang-Bang.

  He passed a very thin bl
ade down through the window slit to make sure there was no trip wire and then opened the door. He looked under the panel. Nothing. He opened the hood. He looked back of the motor.

  “Aha!” said Bang-Bang. “A cable job!” In a gingerly fashion he slid a matchbook cover between two contact points. Then he snipped some wires. Shortly he fished up a revolution counter.

  “A second odometer!” he said. “The speedometer cable was taken off the back and put to this thing.” He was spinning its wheels. It suddenly went click. He read the numbers. “Five miles! It was set to go five miles from here.” He peered back down behind the motor. “Jesus! Ten pounds of gelignite! Wow, did they blow dough on setting this up! Somebody is big bucks mad at you, kid! That’s enough to blow up ten—”

  “Shh!” said Heller.

  A car was coming!

  Hurriedly, Bang-Bang closed the hood and door. Heller dragged him to a point about fifteen feet from the main entrance and back between two stacks of boxes.

  The car stopped.

  Bang-Bang whispered, “You got a gun?”

  Heller shook his head.

  “Me neither! It’s illegal to carry a gun on parole.” He shifted his heavy sack of explosives. “I don’t dare throw a bomb in all this whiskey. We’d go up like a torch!”

  “Shh!” said Heller.

  A car door closed. “I’ll put the car around back,” somebody said.

  Silence.

  A car door slammed in the back of the building. Footsteps going around. Then, in front, “The door’s still locked back there.”

  “I told you,” said a new voice. “There ain’t nobody here.”

  A rattle of keys. “You just got the jumps, Chumpy. He’s probably still running.”

  “Anybody could have come in the time it took you!” It was the plump young man. He backed in. The door opened inward more widely.

  Two men in expensive-looking clothes followed him through. “We came as fast as we could. Jesus, you don’t get from Queens to here in five minutes. Not in this traffic! See, there’s nobody here! Waste of time.”

  “He’ll be back!” said Chumpy. “He’s a mean (bleepard)! If you don’t do nothing, I’m going to call Faustino!”